


In a thousand lifetimes

by scribensdracones



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-19 00:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15498087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribensdracones/pseuds/scribensdracones
Summary: A short story collection revolving around the multiple personas taken on by Janna Drosia, Edian's niece - from adventures at court to difficult friendships with other nobles.





	1. Porcelain Doll: Vienna, 1857

_Vienna, November 1857._

What a beautiful, dazzling world. Yet here, the air was heavy with the perfume of the ladies and the pomade that kept the gents' hair kempt. Their hearts were heavy, too, burdened by the protocol that would not let them breathe. Their rustling skirts, their tightly laced corsets, their powdered faces, the jewelry dangling from their arms and necks like chains, none of it really mattered. Was there a single happy person at this court?

Count Karl Grünne and Dr. Johann von Seeburger had been talking to him all evening and only now did he really listen. Nothing they had to say really mattered after all. Expectation lingered in the air, an expectation he meant to indulge. Unfortunately, his curiosity has not been strong enough to breach protocol and seek her out on his own – yet if he was not entirely mistaken, the beautiful Miss Charlotte of Brugges, protegé of Duchess von Hohenberg might be a noble. While at first he assumed that he might be dealing with an Infected, he'd dismissed it soon – people were too enraptured, too charmed by the alleged Belgian foreigner. A noble, here, though... ? Knowing them, he had not felt the particular need to investigate before their paths did not converge on their own. Tonight must be the night, with both of them present, and his certainty greater than ever before. Maybe not just a mere stray rogue civilian...

“Charlotte, dearest. This is Dr. Frank Seeheimer, you certainly heard of him already,” the duchess started, one hand placed on the back of her charming companion.  
“Dr. Seeheimer, this is Charlotte of Brugges. My dearest friend,” she continued and, politely, the blonde woman by the duchess' side lowered her head, crimson eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement only he would be able to understand.  
“I heard of you, Miss Charlotte.” Politely, he lowered his head as well, a farce for the people who allowed him to maintain this cover with ease.  
“I am pleased to finally meet you in person,” the blonde woman assured with a smile that almost fooled him, too. She must be too preoccupied hiding her surprise. “I have heard so much about you already.”

Maybe everyone would have expected him to ask for a dance – the handsome Dr. Seeheimer and the beautiful Miss Charlotte. However, his curiosity has been sated. No infected to take care of, no noble who might be here to cause trouble – it was only later in the evening that he realized that a wayfarer like her might turn out to be valuable help.

Towards ten in the evening, he stepped out on the balcony overseeing the gardens of the Hofburg. A moment of solitude he had to steal from the noble Lady.

“Miss Janna Drosia, am I right?”  
“Hm. I am surprised you remember me at all, Frankenstein.”

“Hardly,” he admitted and leaned against the marble balustrade next to her. Seeing a noble in the soft pastel colors favoured at court felt wrong. Too many ribbons, too many pearls, too bright, too much. However, that should come as no surprise. The woman had sought him out only once during his stay on Lukedonia before turning away from him. He was no friend, no toy, no plaything to dazzle the way she did with the Viennese court.

“You have not been heard of in a long time,” she started, watching the stars above them. “Are you still on _your quest?_ ”

He drummed his fingertips against the cold stone beneath his hands. “Until the end of time.”  
“Forever is a big word,” she mumbled. If he was not mistaken, he could spot a certain glint of sadness in her eyes. Sadness for whom? Raizel, whom she never met? For him, whom she hardly knew? Or maybe herself and the overwhelming emptiness of a noble's life.

“If there is a single person worth an eternity, it's him,” he stated dryly and found himself interrupted before he could continue.  
“I know you are about to ask whether I might have any leads for you – I don't. I cannot recall having met any noble, or even heard of a person, who might fit his description.”

It was not as though he had expected her to – truth be told, by now, he held on to each straw he could grasp, reached out for spider threads woven of shiny hope.

“I do not seem to have found anything of relevance either, here,” he stated. Though he had no desire to rip open old wounds, maybe there was some relief in that as well: to share an old burden hardly anyone knew he had. All these people... People who tried to be his friends, his lovers, his students, people who tried to matter to him.  
“I hope my presence does not bother you, Frankenstein?”  
“No. But there is nothing that holds me back here, either.”  
“No friends you made here?”  
“There is no such thing here, in this den of hyenas prancing like lions.”

“Hm. How very cynical of you. But -”  
“No.” Whatever she meant to say, whatever she meant to ask, he did not want to hear it, did not want to think about it.

“... I see. Well... I hope you will find him. I sincerely do hope so.”  
Frankenstein glanced at her from the side. Even for a noble, she was extraordinarily beautiful – and yet, she reminded him of the painted porcelain dolls of her friend, the Duchess. Perfect, empty and perfectly empty.

“Whatever you are looking for, Miss Janna, I hope you will find it too, one day.”

 

 


	2. The Muses of San Francisco: 1992

_San Francisco, 1992_

“Who does he even think he is? I can't believe it! The nerve! Light of his life my ass! Red roses all withered away, I guess.” It has been going on for almost half an hour. Sometimes all you could do was sit on an old leather couch and listen. Almost a dozen scented candles were lit, artificial roses and vanilla flooded the room with a heavy air that would have made any human feel dizzy. The woman in front of her slowed down, finally. A shaky breath. “I mean... he's... it wasn't really love, was it?”  
No. It was not. Yet in this moment, Janna was not sure whether she had a heart to tell. Deep down inside, Helen already knew anyway. It was not love. She could never stay with him, could not be his wife, could not bear him normal, healthy children. They would never grow old together. The most cruel part of it? She was certain that, if presented with the choice, her friend would seize the opportunity. Regain her life... A few decades or centuries … were they worth the loneliness that came with it? ( _Yes_ , she told herself. Or else she would have to rethink many things).

Slowly, the noble reached for the letter. Crumbled in rage once, then unfolded with shaking hands once more. Some of such letters she had kept as well, even though she usually preferred the eulogies and paeans, hymns of love and admiration written in her honours. Still... sometimes even their disdain was worth preserving. A last echo of their broken ( ~~no, not heart~~ ) pride.

 _A red rose I thought you to be once_  
_Of beauty and of golden light_  
_Yet your cold heart has made me a dunce_  
_Oh you cruel queen of a single night._

 _A million men must have lost their hearts_  
_A moth to your flame of pretended sophistication_  
_You are but a whore of superficial arts_  
_This is how you led my pure soul into damnation_

 _And you will damn a thousand men to warm your frozen heart_  
_Your sheets stained in their sweat and your lonely tears_  
_Yet see me freed from your web of a false sweetheart_  
_Watch your beauty washed away by the heartless years_

 _And when my soul is mended and yours is broken_  
_you will remember me and mourn the love you lost_

Daniel never was a  _good_  poet. Some people bloomed when their heart was torn into pieces, ripped from their chest by cruelest love. Unfortunately, he was not one of them. His tolerable poetry turned into a single torture to the sophisticated mind. Slowly, she placed the letter aside. At least he only sent you an angry poem instead of starting a war to change your mind, she thought. But this was not about her and so she was quiet instead.

After a few moments, Helen sat down next to her, brown curls spilling over her shoulders. Ah, how beautiful she was. Beauty frozen into marble, pale and almost tired. She'd deserved better – better than the life of a mutant, better than a man who called her a whore over his wounded pride and assumptions he'd made. A man (or maybe a woman) who loved her whole. Someone who understood her delicate artist's soul... Ah. If only...

“I hate men,” she whispered and, slowly, the young woman let her head sink against the noble's shoulder. “I thought... Is it ever over?”  
“no.” Gently, she brought up one hand to run her fingers through soft, dark hair in a comforting gesture. “It's never over. In a hundred years, a hundred men will try to break your heart... and you will break a hundred yourself, too. And you will hate it.”

 With a heavy heart, Helen sighed and closed her eyes. This small apartment in San Francisco... Yes, Helen was the queen of the night, yet at day, like now, she was here and alone. Slowly, she pulled her friend into her arms. At least a single soul in this world understood her. A gentle soul, delicate. Not a rose but a tender viola. A beauty without thorns, so sensitive, so truly sweet. To be loved and not being able to return it in full... what a cruel fate! The whole world would call you a heartless whore. You could do nothing to fight it.

After a while of silence, Helen shifted. Slowly, Janna released her from her embrace, her (physical) comfort was no longer needed in this situation. Awkwardly, the young woman got up from the old couch, fingers fidgeting nervously.   
“Thank you... for being there. Ah. I wish... I wish ...”  
“... you wish you could tell him the truth.”  
“Yes. Hey... if I told someone the truth... would you come kill me?”  
Both women laughed awkwardly.  
“No. But he is not worth the truth.”

It was good to have a friend who understood you. A friend who knew the truth about you. Pureblooded noble or mutant of a third generation... were they really so different, two girls who looked for the one who would love their soul? 


End file.
